


Fit for the Gods

by Vulpesmellifera



Category: Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Art, Clara Peeters, Crossover, Hannibal and Will on the run, M/M, Married mystrade, Metaphor, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, grey morality, post-canon Hannibal, post-canon Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26752306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulpesmellifera/pseuds/Vulpesmellifera
Summary: An unexpected encounter at the Prado National Art Museum in Madrid leads to a quick change in plans for Greg, and a renewed hunger in Will.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 43
Kudos: 116





	Fit for the Gods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blue_Posey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Posey/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to Blue_Posey! Thank you for being you - a thoughtful, caring, and fearless leader. And thanks for all the Hannigram fun on the Mystrade server. 😆
> 
> Thank you so much to benditlikerackham for the cheerleading and for looking it over. ❤️

Mycroft’s hand passes over his, lingers on Greg’s platinum wedding band, heat radiating between their fingers. Greg smiles, leans in, and brushes his lips over Mycroft’s cheek. “I’ll wait here, husband,” Greg says, the words tumbling over his tongue with all the pleasure of tasting a very fine chocolate. 

Mycroft glows with his answering smile. “I shan’t be long,” he says, and steps away to find the nearest lavatory.

Greg watches him go, admiring the sleek frame in a bespoke suit as he strolls across the marble floor of the museum. When Mycroft rounds the corner, Greg turns his attention to the gilt-framed paintings on the walls. Decadent, sumptuous feasts plated on glitzy dishes, set among an interplay of dark shadows and soft, golden luminescence. The paintings fit the earth-brown, austere halls of the Prado. No doubt later on, his _husband_ will insist on treating him to a dinner with equally decadent settings, as they’ve done at each city during this honeymoon trip across Europe.

Soft clicks of shoes sound against the floor as another couple enters the gallery. Greg watches from the corner of his eye. The taller of the two is well-dressed: a three-piece windowpane suit in red on dove grey. His tie is a bold paisley - and it’s a combination that shouldn’t work, and yet somehow does. With combed ashen hair and a side sweep of fringe, he might have stepped out of a fashion magazine for aristocrats - especially with that Grecian profile. 

The man at his side is perhaps only an inch shorter than Greg, with a tousle of dark curls and a trim beard. While the seeming aristocrat holds himself with a natural air of self-satisfied confidence, this one moves like he’s expecting a fight. His eyes scan the room for people and exits instead of paintings. When his eyes snag on Greg, his companion places a hand on the small of his back, and bends his ashen-blond head to whisper.

Greg turns his eyes back to the painting. The two men are captivating. Enthralling in the way they move around each other - in sync, as if taking part in a choreographed dance. Two halves of a whole, but also in antagonism to each other. While the smaller man frets and shifts, the larger man soothes and cajoles. 

Greg pretends to be absorbed in the paintings, walking from one to the next. Placing himself closer to the two visitors, but without giving them any obvious attention. At first, he can’t be sure why they’ve magnetised his attention, and then he realises - they’re a couple. And they are quite like him and Mycroft, aren’t they? One toff, one bit of rough. The thought tickles the corners of his lips into lifting. 

The one in the suit speaks just loudly enough for his voice to carry to Greg’s ears.

“Little is known about the life of Clara Peeters,” he says in a burble of softly accented english. “She was never recorded in the Antwerp painter’s guild, and it isn’t known who taught her to paint, but she is quite skilled nonetheless. Meticulous brushwork, every detail painstakingly rendered, not only to place the meal before the viewer, but to elevate it, lift it out of reach, as if it were ambrosia fit only for the gods.”

The dark-haired man focuses on the painting where they’ve stopped. “They’re quite beautiful.” An American accent? 

“Not only did she seek to hallow these objects beyond their material ostentation, she -”

“Wanted to be seen,” the American says.

The tall man turns his smiling face to his companion. The beacon of pride is as bright as a bonfire against a night sky, as brilliant as these paintings with their sun-drenched objects against the black shadows. 

“Yes,” the man agrees. “She wanted to be seen, and so she did an unlikely thing: painted her portrait in the reflection of the glassware.”

Greg moves closer to the piece they’re looking at. Sure enough, in the silver pitcher, he can see it - the ghostly apparition of a person, reflected several times in the curves and bowing of the mercury glass.

He’s still several feet away when he realises both men are looking at him. Greg flushes, and stutters. “Oh, uh, sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear - this room echoes,” he says. “I thought they were just nice paintings, but what you said really helps to deepen an appreciation for them.” He clears his throat and shuffles his feet. “Thank you.”

The tall man smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re very welcome.”

“Greg?” The delicate steps of Mycroft’s soles sound across the room. 

Greg turns. “Hi,” he says. But Mycroft’s face prevents him from saying more.

Mycroft stares at the couple, or more specifically, at the man in the windowpane suit. “Hannibal,” he says, his face white and his shoulders rigid.

Greg can feel the couple stiffen - especially the shorter man with the sable curls. The man takes half a step in front of the one called Hannibal.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Hannibal - and what kind of a name is Hannibal? - says, and places a hand on his partner’s arm. “It’s been a long time.”

“It has,” Mycroft says. He seems to break out of his fugue, and walks quickly to Greg’s side. 

Hannibal’s smile softens. “It’s good to see that you are well. Is this your partner?”

Mycroft glances between Greg and Hannibal. It would be nice to be able to read the man’s mind - Greg has no clue what’s going on. “Forgive me,” he says, and his face crinkles with a smile and he gives a squeeze around Greg’s waist. “This is my husband, Greg Lestrade.”

Hannibal hooks his elbow with that of his companion. “Allow me to introduce to you my partner, Will Graham.” 

Will blinks at Hannibal in seeming shock - Greg doesn’t miss it. But he recovers and steps forward with his hand held out. Up close, Greg can see that a scar on his right cheek mars the line of his beard, giving him an air of roguishness - or perhaps, danger. “Nice to meet you, Mycroft Holmes. How do you know Hannibal?”

Mycroft shakes his hand. Greg follows. Will’s grip is warm and strong. His eyes are a beautiful blue, but they seem dark and vicious in the museum lighting.

“Hannibal and I met one another years ago in Paris.” Mycroft’s voice is smooth and bland, like when he speaks to politicians over the phone - Greg’s heard that tone plenty of times. It means Mycroft is playing a game.

Will is looking at Hannibal. “While you were studying medicine?”

Hannibal smiles at Will. “Yes. Mycroft and I would often find ourselves in the same studio to draw from live models. It was a way to calm and quiet the mind.” 

Greg can see it now. The way Hannibal casts an appraising look at him and Mycroft. A quiet, subtle judgment sitting on his placid, handsome face. 

This is an old flame. An old date of Mycroft’s. A somebody from Mycroft’s past. 

He doesn’t like to talk about his previous paramours, and says that there were few. Greg’s curiosity buffets him like a cliffside wind, shoving him into the direction of asking questions Mycroft would likely not want to answer. Paris is where this honeymoon adventure began, after all, and never was a ‘Hannibal’ mentioned.

He slides an arm around Mycroft’s waist. “Well, fancy bumping into an old friend of Mycroft’s in Madrid of all places. Are you here on vacation?”

“Of sorts,” Hannibal says. “How are you enjoying the sights?”

“Oh, it’s gorgeous. I’ve never been before.”

“Tell me, Mr Lestrade, are you an officer of the law?”

Mycroft’s grip on him tightens.

“Yeah,” Greg says as he tilts his chin up. “Detective Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard.”

“Remarkable. Will is former New Orleans police, and consulted for some time with the FBI.”

The stretch of air between the four of them seems tense, as if they were caught in clay that’s drying and stiffening around them. Fear finger-walks its way up Greg’s spine, but he swats it down. Waits for a cue from Mycroft. 

Hannibal has locked eyes with Mycroft. “It seems you were right; we were alike in many ways then.”

Something flares in Will’s eyes. 

“And yet not enough in others,” Mycroft says. “Not to say it wasn’t an enjoyable time.”

Wait, are they flirting?

“No,” Hannibal agrees. “And it seems now we have both found our Patroclus.”

Mycroft smiles, and it’s not his genuine smile. “Yes, it would seem so. And I wish you the greatest happiness, Hannibal.” His eyes glance at Will, and back to Hannibal. “May your Patroclus rise above Hector’s spear.”

A garbled noise escapes Will. What the fuck is going on?

Hannibal’s eyes shift to Greg - they’re leonine, brown with an edge of amber. Greg imagines if he saw Hannibal in the dark, his eyes might glow from the shadows. “Indeed. I suppose I must wish the same for yours,” Hannibal says.

“A gentleman’s agreement, then,” Mycroft says. “That we may both rise to conquer our respective cities.”

Hannibal smiles. “A gentleman’s agreement. It is good to see you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nods his head once. “Hannibal. Mr Graham.”

“Mr Holmes,” Will says.

Greg doesn’t like the way he says it. He puts his hand out for Will Graham. Will shakes it, lightly, his eyes meeting Greg’s. “Very nice to meet you both,” Greg says, and then shakes Hannibal’s hand. He ignores the urge to wipe it on his trousers after. 

“Well, I’m knackered,” he says as he claps his hands together and looks to Mycroft. “I could really use a kip before dinner.”

Mycroft gifts him with an indulgent smile. A real smile. “Allow me to take you back to the hotel, then.”

With a nod, they’re on their way.

As they reach the exit of the Prado, Mycroft slides an arm over Greg’s shoulders and squeezes them. “Do not look behind us. Do not question me. When we get to the hotel, we shall pack our things as quickly as we can and then we are changing our itinerary.”

“What’s happening Mycroft? Who is he? And who is Patroclus?”

“It’s not him I’m concerned with, but the little one he’s got with him.” And Mycroft hurries them toward a taxi. “And Patroclus was killed by Hector while he wore the armour of Achilles on the battlefield. Achilles loved him very much.”

Greg lets himself be directed, and despite the urgency, the moss-soft feeling of love surrounds him. This is Mycroft protecting him, and Greg can trust in that.

* * *

They stand behind a column, Hannibal at his back. The soft exhale of Hannibal’s warm breath tumbles over the nape of his neck.

“How many lovers of yours do I have to contend with?” Will says as he watches the two Brits get into a cab.

“Leave this one be, Will,” Hannibal says. 

“Why?”

“I made an agreement.”

“A gentleman’s agreement?” Will scoffs. “Why on earth would you do that? He knew your name, and now he knows mine. He knows what you are, doesn’t he?”

“I know he suspects,” Hannibal admits. 

“And if he decides to look us up, he’ll see we’re on the run. He’ll tell.”

“No, my Patroclus. He won’t.”

“Don’t call me that,” Will snaps. “And the cop?”

“Is not the more dangerous one of the two.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Mycroft Holmes is as close to omniscient as almost any man can get. If an attack is made on his person, or on his life partner, we’d have to contend with his reach.” Hannibal grabs Will by his hips and spins him around. Leans him against the cool stone of the column, crowds him with his size. Will lets it happen. “Let’s enjoy our time here in Madrid.”

“He is no Achilles,” Will says, and he hates how petulant it sounds.

“No,” Hannibal agrees. “But he is Aeolus, and his winds carry around the globe.” He nuzzles Will’s cheek. “Come, my Will. Let us put them away from our minds. I promised you a pastry.”

“That baker was really rude,” Will says as he allows Hannibal to lead him away from the column and across the pavers. He misses the warmth and the weight of Hannibal pressed against him.

Hannibal smiles like a shark, a white fence of pointed teeth. “Indeed he was. And how shall we correct that?”

Will looks up at the clear blue sky, relishing the warm sun on his face, and still cognizant of the national art museum at their backs. “We’ll make it a meal of ambrosia,” he says, sliding his hand into Hannibal’s - like sliding a hand into a glove. “Fit for the gods.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
